Pass the NyQuil
by jublke
Summary: Sick? Injured? Winchesters don't like to talk about it. Good thing Sam and Dean can read each other like books. Set during the bunker years, some time when the brothers aren't fighting and Cas is AWOL. Rated T for language.


Not mine, don't own. Rated T for language. One-shot for now. If you'd like to beta for me sometime, drop me a line. Thanks!

For those of you following along with _Regarding Sam_ and/or _Sam's Summer Job_, I haven't forgotten about them. They are vexing me at the moment though, so instead you get this. :)

Cross-posted at _Archive of Our Own_.

* * *

"Dean?" The sleep-roughened voice held a question.

The hunter froze on the edge of the twin bed, elastic strap in hand, and cursed himself internally. Life at the bunker had made him soft. It had been far too long since he'd shared a room with Sam and he'd forgotten just how light a sleeper his little brother could be. Dean tucked the ankle brace under the flannel in his duffel - mindful now of how loudly the Velcro crinkled - and grabbed a pair of socks instead. He bounced from the bed to standing in one swift motion.

"Hey-ya Sammy."

His brother frowned as his hazel eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?" Sam sat up in bed, clearing his throat, hair tangled every which way.

Dean shrugged. "Nothin', man." He strode toward the door. "I'm gonna get us some breakfast while you shower. What kind of girlie coffee you want today?" He sat down at the cracked white Formica table and bent over to put on his socks. He frowned as he pulled on the right one, hesitating before reaching for his boots.

"Dean—" Sam's exasperation engulfed the single word.

Dean flinched. His gargantuan brother had somehow managed to slip out of bed while he'd been distracted by his footwear. Sam now loomed above him, clad in plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a short-sleeved tee. He crossed his arms over his chest, which only served to make him look more pissy.

"What?" Dean snapped back, turning away from Sam to pull on his left boot, lacing it with a practiced hand. "Fine. You don't want coffee, see if I care." The older hunter dropped his right boot on the floor with a thud and forced his foot into it. He took more care with the laces now, slowly strapping the leather tightly.

"Dean." Sam sat down beside him. "You're going to cut off your circulation," he admonished.

The older man popped up on his feet, looking ready to slug his brother. "Bite me," he warned. He strode over to the dresser and picked up the keys to the Impala.

Sam crossed the room in two long strides and bodily blocked the motel room door. "Oh no. We're gonna talk about this." He gave his brother a pleading look. "If you're hurt, I need to know what's going on."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You are such a damned drama queen," he spat.

"No," Sam challenged, folding his arms again. "I'm not. We both agreed there'd be no more lying." He caught Dean's shifty gaze and held it. "You promised."

Dean sighed. His shoulders slumped as his eyes slid down to the filthy motel carpet. Sam could hear Dean's teeth grinding before he spoke.

"I'm fine," Dean finally mumbled.

"No, you're not," Sam insisted. "What's wrong with your foot?"

Dean threw his arms wide. "Nothing!"

Sam swore. "I saw the damn ankle brace, you idiot! If you need it, wear it."

The glare he received back could have melted steel. "I'm not lying, Sam!"

Something in Dean's blazing green eyes must have convinced his brother, because Sam deflated, righteous indignation bleeding away into confusion. "Then why—"

Dean shoved him aside. "Be ready to leave in thirty or I'm leaving your ass here."

Sam stood by the open motel room door, rubbing his forehead and wearing a quizzical expression. The Impala's engine roared to life in the parking lot and Dean peeled out.

* * *

Sam snuck covert glances at his brother as they canvassed the neighborhood. If he hadn't seen Dean holding an ankle brace first thing that morning, he would have had no idea that the man was nursing an injury.

This thought bothered Sam more than he cared to admit. _When did Dean hurt himself? _He thought over their last few hunts as they ascended another set of steps and knocked on yet another door. _Maybe Dean isn't really hurt?_ But no, he'd been far too irritable and defensive when Sam had brought it up. And he'd either spent money on a brace or swiped it, which indicated a problem that he'd put some thought into.

Sam followed his brother into the latest tiny house and watched as Dean carefully sat across from him. The younger Winchester gratefully accepted a mug of tea from their host, and warmed his hands on the large cup. The honey-sweetened liquid felt good on his throat.

Dean widened his eyes and gave Sam a look that he interpreted as "Get with the program!" Sam bit the inside of his mouth to force himself to focus on the interview instead of the tea.

When the old man gave them directions to the cemetery, Sam thought he heard a small grunt of displeasure from the older hunter. But upon looking, he only saw the bland smile his brother wore when impersonating the FBI.

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Thornton. We'd like to see justice served as well."

It was when Dean rose to standing that Sam caught the flinch. His brother's entire body bobbed sideways before Dean found his footing again.

Sam thrust out a hand to the old man. The gesture was partly out of politeness, but mainly to give Dean a moment to regain his composure. Sam cleared his throat. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Thornton. Thanks for your help. And the tea."

Dean waited until they were outside before he rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the tea?"

"What? It was good."

It wasn't until they were back at the Impala that Sam made his move. "Give me the keys, Dean."

"Huh?" his brother replied.

"I'm not riding with you until you talk to me about what happened with your leg back there." Sam turned a prissy face on Dean. "And since we both know that's not going to happen, I'm just gonna drive us out to the graveyard."

"Whatever," Dean replied, handing over the keys with a roll of his eyes. "Knock yourself out." He opened the passenger side door and slipped inside the old car.

Sam worked his lower lip between his teeth. A compliant Dean was never a good sign. He rounded the back of the Impala and popped open the trunk, careful not to disturb the false floor. Fishing around in the first aid kit, he found the bottle of Advil and brought it into the car with him.

"Here." He handed the medication to Dean.

"What's this for?"

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed as he started the engine. It was going to be a long afternoon. He put the Impala in gear and headed toward the outskirts of town.

A surreptitious glance his brother's way caught Dean popping two Ibuprofen tablets before handing the bottle back.

_Minor pain then_, thought Sam. His brother had been known to take in excess of four at a time. Whatever was going on, it didn't seem to be a major problem. And the case, thankfully, looked like a simple salt and burn.

_But still... When do we ever catch a break?_

When Sam pulled into the motel parking lot twenty minutes later, Dean gave him a surprised look that quickly morphed into a glare. "What're we doin' stopping here? We gotta scout out the cemetery."

Sam kept his eyes on the faded yellow paint denoting the crooked parking spaces. "I need to use the bathroom." He refused to look at Dean, sure his brother would suss the lie easily if he caught the worry in Sam's eyes.

Dean snorted. "That salad not sittin' so well on your delicate stomach, Princess?"

"Shut up, Dean." Sam turned off the ignition, exited the car, and moved with purpose into their shared room. He wondered how long he should give the other man to tend to his ankle. It was clear that Dean didn't feel comfortable putting on the brace with Sam in the room. But after watching his brother nearly noseplant into an antique coffee table, Sam didn't want to take any chances at the graveyard. The wooded site was supposedly on the top of a hill. From his own experience with ankle sprains, Sam knew the uneven ground could be a problem, whether Dean wanted to admit it or not. He entered the tiny bathroom, locked the door, turned on the sink tap, and sat on the edge of bathtub with his feet in the basin to give his brother some privacy.

_And yeah_, Sam thought, _I might as well take a couple of Advil while I'm in here. Might help with this headache._

* * *

The recon had gone smoothly and, for once, the deceased had made things easy by virtue of having been buried just inside the back gate. A thick set of privacy hedges meant that they were able to pull the Impala practically into the grave.

So, of course, it had to start raining before they finished digging. The downpour hadn't been in the forecast and caught both brothers off-guard. Sam briefly entertained the thought of storm gods as he scanned the grounds before reminding himself that this was likely just a garden variety thunderstorm with a garden variety pissed-off spirit.

_No need to borrow trouble. Winchester luck is bad enough._

Sam spat his sopping hair out of his mouth. He had to yell over the storm. "How much longer?"

Dean looked up at him from the muddy hole. He leaned on the shovel while wiping water from his face, leaving a smear of mud across his cheek. "Almost there," he yelled back, sounding winded.

"Wanna trade again?" The nearby shrubbery was great for hiding the Impala, but it also meant that nearly anything could sneak up on them here. Sam moved the flashlight in an arc as he waited for Dean's reply.

"Nah, I got this."

Sam relaxed fractionally at his brother's tone of voice and tried to blink the water out of his eyes. Dean did seem to have things in hand. Sam mentally downgraded his brother's ankle brace to a minor blip on the radar. _I've got those chronic back spasms, and Dean's got his trick shoulder. Maybe he's having other issues as well. We are getting older, after all, and ..._

"Sam! Down!" He ducked at the same time the spirit's bony claw swiped at his neck. Having missed, it cackled angrily and leapt into the hole with his brother.

"Dean! Behind you!" Dean whipped around, pivoting in place. Fortunately, he caught the spirit with the iron blade of the shovel. With a shriek, the ghost dissipated.

Sam jumped into the hole beside his brother, clutching the shotgun. "Damn it, that was close." He noticed then that Dean hadn't moved. "You okay?"

The older man thrust the shovel at him without making eye contact. "Gimme the gun," he ordered.

"Dean, I'm sorry, it just snuck—"

"The gun, Sam," Dean repeated. He looked up right then, and Sam was able to catch anger mixed with something else. Embarrassment? Resignation?

_Probably disappointment in me_, Sam thought. He handed over the gun and accepted the shovel, lighters, and lighter fluid. "Dean, I—"

KA-BLAM!

Sam's ears rang but he could still hear the angry shriek as the spirit dissolved a second time. Dean sat on the edge of the grave now, jeans coated in mud, wearing a grim expression. The rain fell in torrents as Sam took in the scene.

_Damn_, Sam thought, _I'm really off my game tonight._ He shoveled quickly and efficiently, reaching the coffin before his brother had to face the ghost again.

Sam pried open the lid, scrabbling to gain purchase in the mud, and quickly doused the bones in salt and lighter fluid. He tossed the first lighter in, holding the top of the coffin aloft and using it as a makeshift umbrella. He really hoped this worked and he didn't have to waste the second lighter. He was sick of the rain, sick of the mud, and sick of feeling like he was two steps behind the ghost. Thankfully, it wasn't long before the spirit went up in flames, shrieking like a banshee.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief and dropped the heavy lid with a thud. "You wanna get that other shovel and give me a hand down here?"

Dean, standing above ground, frowned down at Sam. "We could leave it."

Sam quirked a face up at his brother, and got rain in his eyes for the trouble. He blinked and sneezed, frowning at Dean. "What happened to 'leave no trace'?"

Dean shrugged as he walked off. "Knock yourself out, Boy Scout," he replied. "I'm getting out of the rain."

Sam's bitch face was lost to the dead since the ghost had moved on and Dean was walking slowly toward the Impala. Sam filled the grave in as quickly as he could, but the wet earth was now twice as heavy. He had to stop several times to cough, but anger and frustration propelled him forward.

Finally, the hole was filled in. _Well, mostly filled in and who's really going to notice back here?_

Sam threw open the passenger door of the Impala and let loose a muddy sneeze. "Thanks for the help back there." He sniffed loudly.

Dean wiped a fleck of dirt from his face and eyed the mud pie posing as his brother. "You're not riding with me like that."

"What?" Sam threw Dean his saddest puppy dog expression.

The older brother rolled his eyes. "Think it through, Francis. Get the blanket out of the trunk and cover up the seat first. Take off your shirt and jeans before you get in here. And your boots."

"Take off my... Are you crazy?"

"You see anybody else out here willing to lug your sorry ass back to the motel?" Dean raised an eyebrow as he smirked at Sam.

"I hate you," Sam grumbled, stripping off his muddy layers. He sneezed again and looked around helplessly for some tissues.

Dean reached into the back seat and threw him a roll of toilet paper. "Right back at ya, Princess."

* * *

Sam stood under the lukewarm spray of the moldy motel shower, trying to warm up. Dean had insisted on first shower. This annoyed Sam to no end, but he figured his brother was still irritated about Sam's earlier failure to track the ghost, so he gave in without a fight. Sighing, Sam rose to his full height, which made his knees happy but left his neck and head to cool. _Why can't shower heads be placed at a decent height?_

He turned off the spigot and stepped out into the steam. Between Dean's shower and Sam's, they had used up all of the hot water, probably for the entire 12-room motel. Sam tried to dry off quickly before he got chilled. His throat felt scratchy and despite his fervent desire to deny it, he suspected that he might possibly be coming down with something. Sam piled on various layers, including a worn brown hoodie and some thick woolen socks. Dean might tease him for it, but Sam knew that his older brother liked to steal the hoodie whenever he felt under the weather. It was fuzzy and warm without overheating the wearer and Sam felt himself relax just by slipping into it.

The minute he opened the bathroom door, his brother leapt off the bed. "Finally! I've been waiting to..." And then Dean trailed off, standing there one step away from the twin bed, with a lost expression on his face.

Sam wrinkled his brows and walked over to his brother. "Waiting to..." he echoed, eyebrows raised.

"Uh..." Dean replied, chewing on his lip. He took a stumble hop with his right foot and wound up standing with all of his weight on his left.

"Whoa," Sam exclaimed, reaching out to steady his brother. "What the hell?"

Dean tentatively placed weight on his right foot again, and this time, he was able to walk to the bathroom. "Gotta go, Sammy," he said, just before slamming the door.

Sam sat down on his bed and studied the bathroom door. Arms folded, he waited for his brother to emerge. Predictably, Dean took his time. Sam finally gave up and used the time to blow his nose and dig around in the med kit for the cough drops. It wasn't like Dean could get past him with that foot anyway.

When his brother finally walked back into the room, declaring, "I knew you were coming down with a cold," Sam had had enough.

"What's wrong with your ankle?" he demanded. The effectiveness was lost when he dissolved into a coughing fit, despite the cough drop.

Dean walked over and handed him the NyQuil. "I know you feel like shit. Just admit it and take some of this so we can both get some sleep."

Sam set the proffered bottle of medication on the night stand and sniffed before clearing his throat. "Tell me what's going on with your foot."

His brother rolled his eyes. "Nothing's going on." He walked backwards, away from Sam, and then back to his brother. "See? No problem. Everything's fine."

"Dean. That's the second time I've seen you nearly face plant today." Sudden realization dawned. "And that's why you wouldn't help me fill in the grave tonight!" Sam turned a triumphant eye on Dean, who froze as if caught.

"I—" Dean stood there, mouth opening and closing like a beached fish. Finally, he sagged in place and shrugged. "Yeah, all right."

Now that Dean's problem was on the table, Sam took pity on him and threw him a line. "Does your ankle hurt?"

Dean shook his head. "No. It just..." he faltered, waving his hands for emphasis, clearly frustrated.

"It doesn't feel right?" Sam tried. "Work right?"

Dean sucked in his lower lip, nodding, and ran a hand down the back of his neck. "Won't hold my weight sometimes," he admitted in a low voice. Now that the dam was open, the words began to spill forth. "Keeps giving out on me. I don't know why. I don't remember doing anything to it." He looked surprised that Sam had somehow maneuvered him into sitting beside him on the bed.

"Let me take a look."

Dean complied, reluctantly. "There's nothing wrong, Sam," he crabbed.

The younger brother didn't reply. He held the joint in his large hands, working the ankle in all directions and watching Dean's face for any indication of pain. Apart from a slight wince when his ankle was twisted up and inward, the older brother's face revealed little.

Sam frowned. "It seems fine."

"Like I said," Dean bit out, pulling his foot back.

"How long's it been giving you trouble?"

"Long enough."

The worried wrinkle between Sam's eyes began to twitch. "Dean—"

"A few months, all right?" Dean snapped. "Jeez, you're like a mother hen, all flittin' around and peckin' at me."

"Did you see a doctor?"

Dean sighed and sat still for so long that Sam wondered if he was ever going to answer the question. "Yeah, actually, I did," he finally admitted in a soft voice. Sam's eyes widened while Dean's fell to the carpet. "Doc said it was nothing." Dean grimaced. "Said my ankle isn't really giving out, it just feels like it is. Told me if it bothered me enough, I could try physical therapy."

Sam blew out a breath and unsuccessfully stifled a cough. "Wow. You never said anything."

Angry green eyes flashed at Sam. "What was I supposed to say? That I'm a wimpy douchebag with a fake ankle problem?"

"Dean!" Sam drew his eyebrows together in consternation. "Whatever's going on, I know you aren't faking it." He shoulder-checked his brother. "I think it's time to try a new doctor."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, all right." He shoved back at Sam. "But now that I've spilled my guts, you gotta take that NyQuil, Germ Boy."

Sam sniffed. "I'm not sick, I'm just-" His words were interrupted by a thunderous sneeze. "Damn it."

Dean handed him a box of tissues, barely hiding a smirk. Sam took a wad and blew his nose. Then he smiled at his big brother, one dimple poking in.

"Fine. Pass me the NyQuil."


End file.
